A Chance Encounter
by Concerned Reader
Summary: Set before the Events of the Film. An escaped alien crashes into the backyard of a kid who just happens to be an active member of the local resistance. Based off of the District 9 RP on Facebook. Now rated M for graphic violence.
1. Chapter 1

A Chance Encounter.

Set before the events of the documentary, and based around two characters of mine in the Facebook Rp.

The glow from the computer lights up my room in a washed out white. The cursor sits blinking at the end of my most recent post. It was comprised of a list of weapons I own, plans for amateur explosives, and things I would do to those that appose up. This may paint me as an anarchist, or a troubled youth, but the reality is that we do have enemies, and if I ever ran into them, I would most assuredly do these things.

MNU. Multi National United. The new scourge of the earth. We will appose them at every turn. At least, that is the plan. Anybody that can be as oppressive and racist as MNU deserves what is coming.

I post my message, and sit back in my chair. Now to wait for a response. After a couple of minutes hitting refresh, I get up and down a glass of water. On my return, an icon dings in the bottom right of the screen. Someone has replied. I click the thread, and read the responses. Everyone is agreeing with me. We are as one. Clicking the new post button, I ready my reply.

"If I ever see a Poleepkwa refugee, I will stick out my hand and greet them as a fellow humane being."

As soon as I hit post, a loud crash resounds from the back porch. Startled, I sit up with a jolt. "What the hell?" I mutter to myself, and then head down stairs to check on the noise. I rush to the back door, and yank it open. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

There was an Alien in my backyard.

He looked exactly like the pictures I'd seen. Only he seemed very frantic and scared. At the sound of the back door opening, he whipped his head around from trying to disentangle himself from our small home garden. He bolts upright, throwing potting soil, utensils, and boundary fencing in all directions.

"Holy shit!" I belt out in surprise, before catching myself and correcting, "I mean, uh… Hello?" He just stands there and looks at me, as incredulous as I am, then looks to the sky in apprehension. I just start to make out the sounds of a helicopter in the distance.

The Alien is about to run for it when he stumbles. His left arm is hanging at an odd angle, and has a weird shine to it. The sound of the helicopter approaches, and I shout out, "Oh shit! You're injured!" He looks at me as if to say, "You think so?" Seeing such a familiar reaction come from an unfamiliar body caused me to stumble on my words before I realized that the Helicopter was now visible on the horizon.

"Crap! Get inside, quick!" I call out to him while running barefoot out into the yard. As I approach, he shows a strange mix of apprehension, and relief, but before I can contemplate this, I have my arm around him. Well more of under him, as he came up to over seven feet tall. His sides were hard and spiky, much like the shell of a crab, and gouged into my skin with every step. By the time we reach the house, my shirt is in tatters, and my skin was raw and bleeding. I slam the door behind us, and lock it. Making sure to turn out any lights that may be on, then lead him away from any sort of window.

I've just finished backing him onto a sofa when I hear someone shout, "What the Hell is that!"


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

This is going to be hard to explain. I've got an alien on my couch, bleeding all over the place. My shirt is torn up and stained with both of our blood, my dad's garden is in ruins, and there is a helicopter circling the neighborhood. Thankfully, my father notices that the odd being in our living room doesn't seem to be threatening anybody. He's just kind of sitting there, slumped to one side in exhaustion.

My father takes a few breaths to calm down, and then asks again, "What… Who… What is that thing?"

"Dad, I suggest you take a seat." I offer, following my own advice and sitting on the far end of the same couch as the Poleepkwa. "It might make things easier. We don't have much time, so I'll be brief." He complies and sits opposite of us, concern showing on his face. "This is a Poleepkwa. You may have heard of it on the news. All that stuff about District 9, and Non-Humans, is a lie. Multi National United is taking advantage of as well as oppressing them. This one probably escaped, and is fleeing from MNU reclamation squads. We need to get him out of sight, and quick."

My father sits there, head in his hands, thinking things over before replying, "Brandon, I trust your judge of character, but I have a hard time trusting this… thing. It looks like a giant cockroach for Christ sake." At this the Poleepkwa shifted into a more upright position, and expelled some sort of mix between a gurgle and a cough from what I assume is its mouth. He then mimics the motion of writing something with his right arm, while more clicks and hisses emanate from his maw.

"I think you offended him," I say, getting up to grab a pen and paper from the kitchen counter. "They don't like being called bugs." I hand the small notebook and pen to the Poleepkwa, then return to my seat next to him. He takes the pen in his hand, having some trouble holding it with his claw like fingers, and opens the notebook to a blank page. With a light scratching, he begins to write something out. He finishes with some effort, and then turns the notebook towards my father and me in turn.

"My name is Christian.  
I mean you no harm."

At this exchange, my father is startled into silence. We stew in this awkward silence for several seconds before he speaks again.

"Hello Christian. My name is Ron, and this is my son, Brandon. I'm sorry if I may have offended you, but I was startled by your appearance."

Christian takes the notebook again, and jots down a quick response.

"For your safety, I need to leave right away.  
MNU will be here any second."

"He's right. We have problems." I say to my father, "I was going to head up to College Station tomorrow, but I can leave now with Christian to get him out of town."

My father nods, and says, "That sounds like a good idea, but before any of that, are y'all okay? You're both bleeding." I glance down at my arms, and realize that they are covered in bodily fluids. A sort of red/brown smear.

"I'm fine." I reply, "Just some minor cuts. It's Christian I'm worried about. His arm looks pretty bad." And it did. Several of the armor like plates that made up his body were cracked where the deltoid on a human arm would be. A brown fluid was seeping out of the injury. Christian took up his notebook once more.

"I got shot. Didn't penetrate, only cracked the shell.  
Should be fine."

"It certainly doesn't look fine," my father retorts, "I'll grab the first aid kit. You sit still." He got up and returned quickly with said first aid kit, and several damp washcloths. "Hold still for a moment, and let me try and patch this up."

My father cleans off the injured area with the damp washcloths, before cleaning out the actual cracked tissue. After everything is cleaned out, he applies several bandages before taping everything over.

"With my limited knowledge, that should hold for a while, though I don't know how different our biology is."

"Thank you. You have shown more kindness than I have seen in my whole life," writes Christian, lifting his left arm experimentally. He winces a few times, but seems to be doing better. "But I need to go soon, or this whole area could be in trouble."

"That's fine," I say, getting up from the couch, "I'm already packed, though I'm not sure if you'll fit in the car." I help him up, and lead him to our garage. With a creak, I open the door, and walk down to my car: A 1993 Toyota mr2. It's a small two door, two seater, sports car that has the engine in the rear. It's the kind of car that you don't enter as much as you fall into it.

I unlock the doors and open them, while trying to figure out how to fit Christian in the car. He is over seven feet tall, but most of it was in the legs. The car has a lot of leg room, but possibly not enough. I move the seat back as far as it can go, and motion for Christian to attempt to enter. He gives me an incredulous look, and chitters something. I may not understand the words, but his meaning is clear.

"Come on, we at least need to try, it's a lot bigger than it looks." I say, motioning toward the open door again. He finally walks over and sizes up the seat. Apparently satisfied, he attempts to get in. He gets one leg in, but has trouble holding his weight up while shifting his other leg into the car. I reach out to support his shoulder, while he finally manages to get the mass of his body into the car. It is a tight fit. Christians head touches the roof of the car, and his legs are bent in a way that must be uncomfortable, but he doesn't complain.

I'm about to get into the driver's side, when I remember something.

"Hold on," I exclaim, "I'll be right back."

I head upstairs and grab a couple of things. Mainly my EEE laptop, and a couple of guns. My father has thankfully gone into the back yard to inspect the garden damage, so I am able to sneak the guns into the garage without a problem. I throw them in the trunk, along with a couple of ammo boxes, and then get into the driver's seat. With my left hand, I give the EEE to Christian, and put the key in the ignition with my right. I shift into neutral and set the parking brake, then reach over and open the laptop for him, opening the speech synth software.

"Here," I say, "this will say anything you type."

He punches in an experimental "O K," and is delighted when the words are relayed by the soulless voice of the computer.

With the communication problem worked out, I shift into reverse, clutch in, and start the car. I open the garage door, back out, then close it again. As hazardous as it may be, I don't turn my lights on until I'm out of the main neighbor hood. I pull onto the main road, and the popup headlights heed my call to light the way. I shift my way up to fifth gear, and soon enough, we are off into the night at sixty miles an hour.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

"So… How did you end up in Texas?" I ask, as we speed down the road. "I'm assuming those injuries are recent…"

Christian glances over as I talk to him, fidgeting in his much too small seat, then starts typing out a reply. He typed for a solid ten minutes before he was finished, then he just let it play.

This is Christian's story:

I had just escaped from District 9, with the help of several people. I do not know who they were, just that they got me out. They destroyed several MNU outposts with explosives, and in the confusion, several of us made a run for it. I got out through the sewers. The pipeline I chose lead right to an airfield.

Others were not so lucky.

A cargo plane was on the runway, waiting to be loaded, and I hid inside of it, using some of the heavy netting as cover. The next morning, they loaded the plane. All the while I was afraid that they would discover me. Pictures of what may happen ran through my head. Some way or another, I was undiscovered. The flight left that afternoon. It was a long flight, but I'm pretty resilient. We landed some time later in Austin. I don't know how long.

They were waiting for me on the runway. As soon as the plane landed, MNU agents with guns stormed the cargo hold. I ran for it. Though weaker through malnourishment, I was able to escape the first wave. It was the second that got to me.

They cornered me in a hanger through a bad choice on my part. It would have been over, but the local authorities did not like people with guns shooting up an airport. I hid and waited it out. The MNU agents left and I ran again. Not knowing were I was going, I just ran. I covered several miles before they found me again. Only this time they brought a helicopter. It landed right in front of me, and they opened fire. One shot cracked my arm. With every last ounce of strength, I jumped over the Helicopter, barely missing the blades, and was running away again.

They followed me for some time, taking shots ever now and then, and I decided I needed a bit more cover. So I started jumping rooftops and fences through neighborhoods. I misjudged the distance from two houses away, clipped your fence, and fell into your plants.

-------------------------------------------------

I was silent as it played back, concentrating on the road while listening. His story was angering; that they would chase these people down like dogs, and shoot before a threat was established. When it finished playing, all I can say is, "Well shit."

Then I look at the dashboard, and repeat my utterance. The gas light was on. I'd forgotten that my tank was almost empty.

"We've got to stop and fill up the gas tank. Otherwise we're stuck without a car." I say to Christian.

"That could be a bad idea." He types back. "We don't know how close they are to finding us yet."

"We'll have to risk it. Running on foot is not a viable option for me."

At the next possible gas station, I pull in to fuel up. I ask Christian to stay in the car, as his presence might make things a bit awkward for the teller. It was an older style gas station. The kind where you pay inside before you can start filling up. I walk up to the counter, hand him my credit card, and ask him to turn on pump two. Then I look through the front isles of the Snack Stop for some sort of food. I settle on Beef Jerky and two Sobe energy drink, and then approach the front counter again. I'm about to pay again, when Christian bursts into the door, holding my laptop, and hits enter.

"We've got to go! They've found us." The computer reads it without any emotion, but I can see that Christian is extremely agitated, as is the clerk behind the counter.

"What the hell!" He blurts out, backing away. I open my wallet, slap a ten on the counter, and say, "Sorry for the trouble, keep the change." With the jerky and drinks in tow, I follow Christian out the door to the car. Just as he said, the helicopter is now visible and audible on the horizon, and coming ever closer.

"Shit! Guess we can't fill up now…" I exhale, while getting into the car. Christian folds himself into the passenger seat with a bit more ease than last time. With a twist of the key, I start the car and lay down a new strip of rubber on the road.

"How did they find us?" asks Christian. I think on it for a while, before it dawns on me.

"Shit! My credit card!" I exclaim.

"Your what?"

"Credit Card. Its something we buy things with, but the bank keeps records of every transaction, including where it was used." I explain to him. "I was sold out by my own bank!"

Suddenly my anger is interrupted as three cracks resound in the night, and three holes appear in the hood of the car. I swerve back and forth, and avoid several more shots, then downshift into third, and floor the gas. The car kicks forward, I shift to fourth at 6500 rpm, followed by fifth. The car is now roaring down the road at 140 mph. The helicopter has fallen behind, expecting the car to stop after having punctured the engine block.

"Hey dipshits!" I shout to the helicopter, "My engine is in the back! You just put a hole in my spare tire!"


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

"Christian, we have problems," I say to the alien sitting next to me, "I just burned a ton of gas, so we need to ditch the car soon. On a side note, here's some beef jerky." I hand him the bag, which he proceeds to tear open with undisguised delight. He devours it like he hasn't eaten in several weeks, which might be true.

"I don't know if you'll like it, but I also picked up some energy drinks. They have a ton of sugar and stimulants, so they may help somehow." Keeping one hand on the wheel to control the 140 mph rocket that was my car, I use my other hand to give Christian a can of Adrenaline Rush. He inspects it for a few seconds, before trying to pull the tab on top. Unfortunately his claw like finger is too big to pry under the tab. After a couple more attempts, I ask, "Need some help?" He waves me off, takes his claw, and punctures the top in a quick motion. The partially carbonated beverage sprays out a faint mist, and Christian flinches in surprise. Before attempting to drink it, he gives it a long look. Then deciding that it's probably safe, he takes a drink.

I don't know how I expected him to drink it, but I thought it would be strange. Instead, he just opened his mandibles, and poured it in. I use my patented one handed opening technique, which consisted of holding the can near the top, then prying the tab open with my teeth, and chugged it as fast as I could.

"Hold on to something, I see a farm road we can ditch the car on." And with that, I break hard, downshift into fourth, taking the turn at as high a speed as I dared. The car's wheels squealed in complaint, fighting against the ground in a battle of friction. The wheels lost.

The car went into oversteer. Suddenly the back of the car was in front, and I was frantically spinning the steering wheel in the opposite direction. Christian had the hand bar in a death grip, holding on for dear life. The wheels finally grab a hold of the ground, and I steer the car back around to the right direction. At a much safer speed, I pull off the road, and into the cover of the woods.

We ditch the car under the trees. I make sure to grab the guns before we leave, as well as lock the car. I am hoping to retrieve it at a later point, when I'm not being shot at. In any case, we leave as soon as possible.

Booking it through trees, underbrush, and rocky ground is a daunting task, especially when every single item in your path is intent on assaulting the living daylights out of you. Christian is carrying on just fine, with his hard exoskeleton to protect him, but three minutes in, and I am already collecting an assortment of scratches, bruises, and lacerations. As one more tree attempts to grab me by the shirt and knock me senseless, I motion for Christian to slow down. I catch up to him shortly as he lays the rifle that was burdening him against a tree.

I take a few seconds to catch my breath, and then utter, "We can't keep running like this. There's too far to go at this pace; for me at least."

Christian opens my laptop, which he had been carrying in one hand, and typed his reply, "I'm sorry. I do not know the limitations of humans. We can go slower; they will find us either way."

"Shit," I reply, "Are they using infrared?"

"And possibly thermal," he adds.

My confidence that we can make it out of this is suddenly much lower than before.


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5

"Get to cover!" I shout over to Christian, as he drops prone to the ground. I pivot on one foot to put a tree between me and the bullets intent on puncturing me. He just makes a kind of mad, strangled gurgle, and then shouts something in his native tongue.

"You know I don't speak that crap! Just get behind something!"

He rolls to his right, taking refuge behind another large tree, and swings the shotgun he was carrying from his shoulder into a more fireable position. Bullets are impacting the ground and trees around us, and I could just make out the distant muzzle flashes between the trees. I raise my own weapon, a 7mm rifle, and look through the scope. There are seven MNU security officers walking towards us, while firing their weapons. They are armed with some sort of machine guns, and weren't too worried about aim. Quantity over quality, as they say.

"Christian. There are seven of them. I'm not sure how long we can hold out here."

He grunts in response, and fires off the opening shot of our resistance. The slow, heavy slug tears a crater out of a tree a hundred yards away.

"Look down the sights! They're there for a reason!" I say, and then take in a deep breath. Letting it out slowly, I squeeze the trigger. Through the scope I see a man's knee explode. He crumples to the ground. The report echo's back to my still ringing ears, and I cycle the spent cartridge.

A shudder passes through me. I've never seen anything as disturbing as this before, not in real life, I've never shot a person before. I don't have time to contemplate on the act, as the hollow thunk of bullets hitting the tree pulls me back to reality. I glance to my right, and see Christian taking better aim with the shotgun. He pulls the trigger, and this time the slug slams into one of the agents chest. His body armor stops the slug, but the impact knocks the wind out of him. He collapses into a siting position, and falls over.

I turn back to my rifle, and sight another agent. Only now my nerves are jarred. He won't sit still in my sights. His form shifts around, refusing to stay in the little cross. I take a deep breath, and start to let it out slowly. The scope steadies, and I pull the trigger again. The bullet goes wide, tearing a chunk out of a tree, showering the approaching MNU agents with leaves.

"Come on!" I shout, cycling the cartridge. I take aim again, and this time puncture his left shoulder. He spins in a half circle, then drops to the ground. His gun forgotten, he clutches his shoulder and writhes in pain. I sight up a third agent, just in time to see his face explode into millions of bloody chunks. I can see bits of skull amid the unrecognizable flash of red. His helmet falls in place, the head no longer there to support it, and lands with a clunk on his body.

I feel the bile rise up in my stomach. Sound seems to deaden, and the outside world seems to dim. All I can see is the mans expression, shifting from a clenched jaw to a puff of red and white. I drop my rifle, lean to my left, and throw up behind the refuge of the tree. Three times my stomach heaves before it is empty. The sound of the bullets slowly transitions from a dull thud to the sharper thunk, and I hear Christian shouting incoherently on my right. I don't have time to figure out what he wants, because suddenly my leg has one more hole in it than it used to.


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6

A swirl of color passes in front of me. It dances by itself, undulating to an unheard song, before being joined by several more swatches. They dance together, intertwining and intermixing, and then coalesce into a single mass. It pulses and shifts, never staying the same for more than a second. Suddenly a voice emanates outwards. It's deep and gravely, like it's coming from a mouth that isn't supposed to make it.

"Why are you here?"

I think about it for a few seconds and then realize, "I don't know."

The shapes shift position again, seeming to swell. They twist all around before contracting once again.

"What do you want?"

"I'm not sure." I offer, and then take a look around. I'm surrounded by white. The only definite shape is my own. The only other color is the swirling, shifting mass of color ribbons. It expands and contracts again in response to my answer. Turning away from it, I start walking.

"Where are you going?"

I keep walking, and say to no one in particular, "Elsewhere." The churning blob of colors follows a short distance behind me.

"What are you running from?" It asks, doggedly keeping pace with me. I ignore it and keep walking.

"What are you running towards?"

"Why are you walking?"

"You are bleeding."

This time I turn around.

"What?"

"From your leg."

Looking behind me, I see a trail of red dots on the otherwise white landscape. I follow the trail with my eyes, all the way back to my pant leg, where I see a perfectly round hole in the fabric. My pants are stained with red. I look up, and the blob of color has consolidated into a solid shape. The last of the tendrils are falling into place. It takes the form of Christian. He speaks again, in the same gravelly English.

"We've got problems."

Suddenly the ground begins moving up and down. Shifting beneath my very feet. I begin to collapse, but the form of Christian rushes over and catches me.

"Why is the ground moving?" I ask as he picks me up. He's strong enough to dead lift me, then flips me over into a fireman's carry.

"The ground isn't moving. You are."

Suddenly my eyes snap open, and I see trees flying past. My leg is in terrible agony, each bounce sending waves of pain through it. Christian is carrying me to the best of his ability, and is almost literally flying though the underbrush. Each stride seems to cover ten to twenty feet, and he doesn't seem to be slowing down.

"What happened?" I ask, and am somewhat surprised when all I get in return is a series of clicks and hisses. Then I hear the gunfire behind us, echoing though the trees. It's of a lower density now, but any gunfire is enough to cause worry.


	7. Chapter 7

Part 7

I must have passed out several more times, because every time I look up, the scenery is different. Christian has carried me for what feels like hours, and it is beginning to show. His pace is slowing, and his breath is ragged. Only the sound of tree's rushing past is audible in my ears, the gunfire has fallen behind.

My leg is constantly reminding me that it's not in great shape. The uneven terrain and natural bounce of Christians gait isn't helping much either. I grimace through the pain, failing to keep it from affecting me. Christan is aware of my discomfort, and attempts to adjust his hold on me. The combination of his running, avoiding obstacles, and re-adjustment of my position is too much, and he collapses without warning.

As we fall towards the ground, at about fifteen miles an hour, we both cry out in unison. The ground is unforgiving, and after several rolls, my momentum is ended by a tree. Christian was more fortunate, and was slowed only by friction.

I lay there for several minutes, groaning, then decide it's about time to pull myself together. Using the trunk for support, I lift myself into a sitting position. Only now do I see how much blood I have lost from my leg. The sight of it makes me feel light headed. I pull out my pocket knife, and cut the jeans away from the wound. The hole where the bullet entered is ragged, and there is a lot of debris around it. Due to either great luck, or someone higher up watching out for me, the bullet entered and exited without hitting any bones. I wipe it off to the best of my ability, but the blood continues to flow out. The exit wound is in worse shape than the initial entrance. As a bullet impacts, it mushrooms out. This means that it blew out a significant chunk of my leg when it exited.

I take a quick look towards Christians prone form. His chest is rising and falling, and he seems to be in generally good shape. With his condition confirmed, I turn back to my own. I am worried that I may have lost far too much blood. I don't know the exact amount, but the human body can only lose so much before very bad things begin to happen. With my knife, I cut off a large strip of jeans, and fold it into a makeshift tourniquet. I tie it around my leg above the knee, and pull it as tight as I can. The flow of blood slows slightly.

This time mutilating what was left of my shirt, I cut several large strips. With a couple of folds, and several strips of my jeans as well, and I have a few makeshift bandages done. I apply them to my leg, then lean back and rest again.

Christian prods me awake an unknown time later. It seems I wasn't the only one concerned about my condition. Lifting my left hand, I take a glance at my watch. The sickly green glow fills my vision, and I learn that it is nearing 23:00.

Before I can mention that fact, Christian asks a question while gesturing towards my leg. Though I can't understand what he is saying, I can see the compassion and fear on his face.

"Other than a thumb sized hole in my leg, I'm alright. I won't be bleeding out for a while, but it hurts like hell." I say, then ask, "Are you alright?"

His demeanor changes instantly as his eyes droop and he shakes his head. Rotating his shoulders slightly, he points towards his backside. It takes me a moment, due to the dim light, but then I make out several impact wounds hidden beneath a coating of leaves, dirt, and blood.

"Shit!" I exclaim, then realizing that cursing will do nothing to help, I ask, "Did any of them penetrate?"

He shakes his head again.

"Hold still. I'll try and clean the wounds. It may sting. A lot."

He nods, and hunches up his back. I work my way over to him as carefully as I can, avoiding stress on my leg as much as possible. Even so, a stab of pain shoots up every time I move. It wasn't a long distance to travel, but as I cross it, it feels never ending.

When am close enough to Christian, I see just how much debris there is on his back. I glance at my right hand, then back to his back, then decide that personal hygiene isn't really important right now. Cupping my hand into a make shift scoop, I gently scrape as much junk off of his back as I can. The blood and ichor sliding off along with various detritus picked up from the ground.

With the injured area cleared off, I can see three distinct bullseye crack impacts on his back. The shell took most of the force out of the bullets, distributing it along the length of the carapace, but the impacted areas were smashed in on each other in such a way as to impede the natural sliding of the plates.

"I think I'm going to have to cut some of your shell away. The fractured shell has to be removed. I don't know how much feeling you have here, so I'm just letting you know."

Christian nods, and clenches his mandibles. Opening my phone for the light, I take out my pocket knife once more, and use it once again for an unintended purpose. Using extreme care, I pry up, and remove the largest fractured pieces. A couple of them have to be cut away from the sinewy under layers, long strings sticking to them. It isn't a clean process, but it's necessity outweighs my own need for sanitation. With each removal, Christian flinches the tiniest bit.

I treat each one in series. Cleaning, removing, and bandaging as well as I can with the remains of my shirt. As I move on to the final wound, I notice that the bullet is still lodged amidst the cracks.

"Crap! There's a bullet here. This may hurt a bit more..."

He nods once more, and I attempt to steady my knife. Following the same procedure as before, I remove the cracked plating first, and clean the area. Then I make my first try on removing the bullet. Only it's mushroomed out a fair amount and is no longer in a shape that is easily removable. With a quick motion, I grasp the bullet, give it a twist, and pull it out as fast as I can. Christian jolts forward, throwing his shoulders back, and releases a pained grunt. Thankfully, I have the bullet out.

"Got it. All thats left is bandaging it." I say, and can immediately see the relief In his posture. Turning his head, he chirps something at me. Though what he says sounds harsh, his expression tells me otherwise.

"What do you expect? I'm a student, not a doctor!" I reply. Christian lets out what can only be described as a mix between a chortle and a gurgle. It may just be the endorphins, but for some reason, I find it extremely funny. Much to his chagrin, my laughter last for a while.

After I've collected my composure, I finish applying pressure and bandages to his back. It's now around midnight, and visibility is extremely limited. My phone has been performing admirably as an impromptu flashlight, but it would be great if it's intended purpose would actually function. Unfortunately, the bar diagram stays at zero.

"It's getting late and cold. We're going to have to sleep soon. Anyplace out of the way will work." I say, pointing towards an area of trees that supply slightly more cover.

"Oh, and we'll have to spoon for warmth."

His expression says it all:

"What?"


	8. Chapter 8

Part 8

I awake, laying on my left side, to find a strange weight on top of my left leg. It's heavy, soft, and feels like a slab of frozen meat. I try and shake it off, but it doesn't move more than a few inches. With a start, I flail my extremities, and jerk back, only to smash the back of my head directly into Christians chest. A strangled grunt leaves my mouth, and I instantly roll onto my stomach, only to become entangled in a mass of arms and legs, both alien and human limbs intermixing.

Christian jolts awake, pushing off the ground to sit up. His sub-arms extend from somewhere on his chest, dragging along my back, while he raises his main arms into a defensive position. He holds this pose for a few seconds before his gaze finally lowers to my body laying across his lap. I look up at him, and see his face shift from an "Oh Shit!" look to something that just seems to say, "The hell?" With one motion, he retracts his lower arms and unceremoniously shoves me off. As I roll further along the ground, I realize something is wrong. I can't feel my right leg.

I can feel the ground pressing against my thigh, the rocks and roots poking into the skin, but just after my knee, the sensation stops. I reach down to touch it; to make sure that it's still there. My fingers contact something freezing cold, and extremely clammy. It's like, at the nebulous line of the tourniquet, there's a body part disconnected from me. I know that it's mine, and that it should work, but it doesn't. The bullet wound is still there, gaping from under the blood crusted blue jean bandage, but I can't feel it. I draw my hand up my calf, the fingers dragging over icy and unfamiliar terrain, until I reach the strip of cloth dividing it from the rest of my body. Some form of expletive leaves my mouth, and my hand reflexively recoils.


End file.
